storms of fire, blood, and the birth of legends
by Cynical Gummy Bear
Summary: Or, the night of Daenerys's birth from the point of view of Viserys Targaryen. T for odd fascination with blood and mentions of rape and murder.


_This one's going to be about Viserys, and Daenery's birth on Dragonstone. The way I see it is that Robert's won already. He rules from the Red Keep, which means Elia, her children, and Rhaegar are dead already. Rhaella, Viserys's mom, was smuggled to Dragonstone. No one knows she's there. Viserys is around 9 in this fic, and he's already a bit touched. _

_Madness does run in the Targaryen blood after all._

Outside the lightning flashed as Rhaella Targaryan screamed once more.

Viserys was huddled in a corner of his room. The birthing chambers were not far off from his chambers-not that it mattered. His mother's screams could be heard throughout Dragonstone. He flinched as a particularily painful screamed ripped itself from Rhaella's throat.

Rain dripped from the gargoyles that were made even more ominous by the backdrop of thunder and lightning that wracked the sky. The sea was churning so loud that the crashing of water upon rock could be heard from inside the heart of the castle.

It was the worst storm to hit the Targaryen castle in over 50 years.

Viserys thought it bitterly fitting for the little baby that was causing his mother so much pain. It was a Targaryen. Maybe it was mad at his mother and wanted to make her cry, just like his father did when she refused to obey him. His mother didn't want him to go near his father. Privately he agreed. He liked his brother more, the tall and seemingly perfect Rhaegar Targaryen.

Rhaegar had always seemed like the perfect Prince in Viserys' eyes. He was tall, with the silver/gold hair and violet eyes of a Targaryen. He was a great warrior, and intelligent, with a beautiful wife. Elia Martell was kind, and smelled of cinnamon. She would hold Viserys and her daughter, Rhaenys in her lap and tell them stories. Rhaegar would throw them up into the air along with little Aegon. Balerion was Rhaenys's kitten, and they would play for hours on end as Elia would sew along with his mother, and Ashara and-

He looked up at the sound of feet running through the halls. Hardly anyone was moving, or doing anything asides from helping his mother through the birth. Mostly the smallfolk were clutching together, some in fear and worry. Dragonstone was used to storms, but nothing like this. This storm was sudden and terrifying, trapping ships in the fear and fury of Nature.

The storm was getting worse, Viserys noted. The thunder was louder, the sea more furious, the lightning brighter. It mixed together with his mother's desperate screams, the sounds mixing together until Viserys could hardly tell them apart. He held his hands over his ears, and yet the wails and the storms and the barking commands of the maesters and midwives still piercing his hearing.

He couldn't take it anymore.

Viserys ran into his mother's birthing chambers, worry fueling his steps before one of the maesters stopped him entering.

"You wouldn't want to go in there, Your Grace."

He was about to protest, retorts about how he was a dragon, a Targaryen and the maester below him before he looked, really looked at the maester. The middle aged man was grey-with worry or fatigue, Viserys couldn't tell.

But it was the blood.

Blood streaked the maester's robes, staining the off-white fabric with splashes of lurid crimson. Dark purple eyes grew wide, and for a moment Viserys couldn't hear anything, Rhaella's screams and the storm muted in his ears as his eyes focused on the streaks of red on white. He was shocked, almost consumed by the sight, with a tinge of fascination.

Would this be what the Usurper looked like when Viserys would kill him? Would he be covered in blood, like the walls of the Red Keep were after Elia's death? Viserys was transfixed by the blood, the lurid splashes of crimson haunting him, fascinating him, like it had so many other Targaryens. He felt the stirrings, feelings of hate and anger and _lust_ overcoming him, something within him lusting for the blood, calling for the blood of the Usurper, of the enemies of House Targaryen.

Soon, he told himself. Mother, his tired, pitiful yet beautiful mother, would birth his wife. His sister and future queen. They would rise together, and then he would bathe Westeros in blood. Fire and blood. The words of his House would come true and then, and hopefully then, the feelings and stirrings inside Viserys would stop. Maybe then, he could rest and the screams of his family, those who had died, would end, knowing that the last dragon had avenged his kin.

He stood there for what seemed like an eternity, until his mother's wails were replaced by the wails of a small child. Viserys tried to run into the room again, only to be stopped by the maester from before. A midwife, looking just as grey as the maester, held a small bundle within her hands. She stopped and urgently whispered something to the man, who nodded and dashed back into Rhaella's rooms.

The woman approached Viserys, whose purple eyes were still wide with fear. The storm was abating, and his mother's screams of pain were gone, but for some reason he felt even more worried than before. Her eyes were soft, looking at him with pity, which made Viserys bristle.

The rule of House Targaryen might not have been as strong as it was before, but the dragon would always triumph. Rhaegar was lost to them forever, which meant that the Targaryens would crush the Baratheon pretender and get revenge for his brother's death. The Lannisters would be put to the sword, and the Cleganes and Amory Lorch killed for what they did to sweet Princess Elia. He would make them pay. His mother would birth the next heir-hopefully a girl, Viserys's wife-and they would crush the Usurper. Everything would be okay, he told himself.

Viserys was jarred out of his thoughts by a soft bundle being placed in his hands. He looked at it curiously.

The baby his mother had birthed was not a monster after all. It-she, the baby was a she-was small, delicate. Nothing like his father, who had nails like daggers and was thinner than Baelor the Blessed. The baby had hair like his, soft downy tufts of silver-gold. A true Targaryen.

Violet eyes glanced up at the midwife. "Her name?"

"Daenerys."

"So quiet, for her birth." Viserys's brow furrowed, and he clutched the baby tighter. "I will call her Stormborn."

One of them-the greatest of them-was lost to Viserys for good. He silently vowed to let this one live, this little baby girl. To live, and not die like Princess Elia, or Rhaenys, or Aegon. She had to live.

The dragon had three heads after all.

The baby turned in his hands, and Viserys frowned. She was so small, so delicate. He had to protect her. Rhaegar would have wanted him to protect her. They had taken everything from him, but they would not take her, his sister and future wife. They would not take the last Targaryen from him.

As violet eyes opened for the first time, Viserys Targaryen smiled. Behind him, a midwife dashed to Queen Rhaella's rooms with bandages in hand, hoping to stop the flow of blood from one of the last Targaryens.


End file.
